


Liquorice Snaps

by Cluegirl



Series: HP Drabbles [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles featuring Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Most Disquieting Tea.

Valerian is easy to taste in any brew; a sleepy hint of alkaline earth and grave mold.

Like the poor boy's voice as he explains – deadened, numb, aching on some cellular level which the mind cannot convey, but the throat cannot conceal.

Eyebright and comfrey are soothing, enervating, perhaps a patch against the growing ache of guilt that tumble of whispers tickles out of him. Licorice against that tightening in his throat which makes him cough twice before managing to speak. 

Clove and cinnamon against the ice that makes them both tremble, and shaking arms held tight. Lemon tasting kisses, sweetness enough to mask the bitter somewhat.

But what could possibly steep away the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach when he gently strokes the black mark on porcelain skin? 

What brew can soothe the ache when he understands, fully and inexorably the meaning of the word 'Unforgivable'?


	2. My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date.

As is common in the wizarding world, his looking glass is quite opinionated. It has firm declarations to make on everything from the length of his beard to the colour of his robes, and whether the hat he has chosen accentuates his eyes, or makes his head look like an eighteenth century frigate. 

It loathes his red-heeled shoes. It mocks his carefully matched socks. What it has to say about his underwear has been known to make uncautious house elves faint in abject horror. It amuses him to no end.

On one subject, however, his glass maintains a conspicuous silence. He asked it why, one night when all the only evidence of his young lover's visit was a warmth in the sheets and a faint pong of shrivelfig, a memory of ivory skin and threads of black still wound in his fingers. But on that, the mirror would not answer.


End file.
